Mind over muscle
by MissEclipse
Summary: When BA Baracus is assigned to Colonel Smith's unit, Hannibal has to try and find a way to keep the hot-headed, punch-happy Sargent out of the Brigg. Reviews welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**[****_The A-Team is still the red-hot property of Stephen J Cannell (RIP)_****]**

**Chapter 1: Boundaries**

_[Timeline: 1964 - Chicago, Illinois]_

"Mama, is it okay if I go and help daddy in the garage?" asked a young, Bosco Albert Baracus.

Mrs Baracus chuckled inwardly to herself as she looked fondly upon her 13-year old son. She knew how much he liked to tinker around with anything mechanical. He could hardly retain his enthusiasm as he eagerly awaited her reply.

"You sure you've finished all your homework?" she asked, arching her eyebrows at him sternly.

"I'm sure, mama," answered the boy earnestly. "You can check my books if you like?"

Mrs Baracus smiled at the frankness of his reply. She knew he wouldn't lie to her. She had brought him up to be an honest, hard-working young man, who respected and trusted his parents' authority and leadership.

"That's okay, Scooter," she replied, calling him by his special childhood name. "Tea will be on the table at 7 o'clock sharp, so make sure you and your daddy are both back by then, you hear?"

Bosco nodded his head, vehemently. He knew tea would just be another plate of oatmeal and cornbread, but food was scarce in the Baracus household and nothing went to waste.

He pulled on his coat and made the short journey to his father's garage. He had grown up in the black, south-side ghetto area of Chicago and lived in a society that was both segregated and unequal. The young BA Baracus had to grow up fast in order to survive on the notorious rough, Bronzeville streets, where jobs amongst the black people were scarce and poverty rampant.

Many of the surrounding buildings in his neighbourhood lay abandoned and derelict. Shootings, robberies and riots were all regular daily occurrences as the ghetto residents rebelled strongly against the unfair government system that tried to pacify them with welfare programmes and empty promises.

As a skilled mechanic, his father, who was assisted by his brother in between jobs, was one of the few residents who owned his own business. But he still had to work for a pittance, knowing that most of his customers from the surrounding ghetto areas couldn't afford to pay their bills.

However, despite the hardship and injustice of the hand that had been dealt to him, his father was a gentle, God-fearing man who had accepted his place in life and strongly urged his son to do the same.

But that was soon to change. As Bosco approached the garage, he could hear a lot of commotion emanating from within. As he gingerly poked his head round the door, he was horrified to see three men, their faces covered with balaclavas, viciously attacking his father. As they pounded him to the ground with their fists and metal rods, the teenager could only watch helplessly, frozen to the spot with fear and consternation at the sound of every sickening blow.

The assailants then started to brandish the metal rods around the workshop. Cars waiting for repair had their windows smashed and bodywork dented. The office had been ransacked, with files and paperwork strewn over the floor.

As the hoodlums finally made their getaway, Bosco could see they had stolen his father's small safety deposit box, which would have contained most of the day's paltry takings. He suddenly felt a surge of anger rise within him. He jumped out from behind the door as they ran towards him and valiantly made an attempt to disarm the thug who was clutching the precious box.

Unfortunately, he was no match for the three men, who swatted him out of the way with ease, pushing him to the ground. One of the attackers stood over him, the metal rod raised high over his head. Bosco cowered with trepidation as he waited to be battered to a pulp.

But by now a crowd of angry residents were making their way towards the garage and the sound of police and ambulance sirens were ringing out loudly in the distance. Instead, the thug dropped his weapon and quickly ran after his fleeing accomplices. They dived into a nearby car and drove off, beeping their horns jubilantly as they screeched off into the fading evening light.


	2. Chapter 2: De Oppresso Liber

**Chapter 2: De Oppresso Liber**

Two very important events took place after that horrific day that would have a big impact on Bosco's life.

Firstly, his father had been beaten up to within an inch of his life and almost died. His injuries were so bad, he never fully recovered and was unable to work again. This put a big strain on the family who were already finding it hard to make ends meet.

It was also the moment when he stopped being a father to his son.

"There ain't anythin' in this world worth losin' your pride for," he had once said to his young and innocent, wide-eyed little boy – and Bosco had believed him. But his father had been wrong, because now all of his daddy's dignity, faith and acceptance of who he was, had been beaten out of him.

Secondly, Bosco had vowed to himself that no-one was going to make him feel like he was a victim ever again. He had felt like a yellow-bellied coward, scrambling around in the dirt at the feet of his attackers.

It didn't matter to him what the motive was behind the assault on his father. He was sick of running scared from racial violence and the desperate addicts who would do almost anything to feed their drug and alcoholic addictions. He didn't want to be part of a world where poverty-stricken families struggled to feed their children. He didn't want to be another high school drop-out with no job prospects to look forward to.

He wanted to be able to walk into white shops and banks. He wanted to be proud of his black culture and heroes without being sneered and ridiculed. But he couldn't do that here. There were too many boundaries that kept him firmly closed in by his white neighbours.

His mama understood how he felt.

"Life don't mean nothin' unless you can hold your head up high, Scooter," she had said to him. And Bosco firmly shared in her sentiment. He desperately wanted to leave his insular world behind him and embark on his own life journey.

As his father became weaker, Bosco grew more stronger, tougher and meaner! His uncle had taken over the running of the family business. Bosco would help him in the garage after school as they needed the money to survive. Although the business premises belonged to his father, they rented their tenement apartment from the ruthless white landlords, who would surely evict them if they defaulted even on one monthly payment.

When his daddy died three years later, the 16-year old had already taken his place as the man of the household. He had applied to join the Jamaican Defence Force. It was important that he found a job that could support himself and his mama. But first he would respect her wishes and finish his last year at school – he owed her that much.

Soon he reached the military age of 17 and he was successfully accepted into the JDF. After about 6 months' service, he then volunteered to participate in the Special Forces Qualification Course, which included Airborne School. After almost a year of arduous training he had successfully graduated as a fully-fledged Green Beret Sergeant - First Class.

Remembering the Special Forces' motto – _de oppresso liber_ (liberate from oppression) - Bosco thought this was something he could relate to. With this in mind he enlisted to join the Vietnam war in July 1969.

"Don't worry, mama," he had said to her, as she drew him into a farewell embrace. "When I get home I'm gonna be a trained mechanic and have a shop of my own. Then I'm gonna take real good care of you and make you proud of me."

But after a couple of very brief visits, Bosco stopped coming home. All his mama could do was hope and pray that one day he would find his way back to her.


	3. Chapter 3: Brains –v- brawn

**Chapter 3: Brains –v- brawn**

[_Nha Trang Base Camp – Sept 1969_]

Colonel John Smith was tutting in frustration as he scrutinised the file on Sargent B.A. Baracus. It had been given to him by the Sargent's CO, General Ludlum who had tried everything - short of sending him in front of an execution squad – to bring him into line.

According to Ludlum, he had spent most of his first two months in the Brigg. It would appear that the volatile Sargent liked to let his fists do the talking and had acquired a reputation for being insubordinate, unruly and rebellious.

The Colonel had seen Baracus on a few occasions around the base. With his extremely large bulk and foreboding presence it was difficult not to notice him. Rumour had it that his initials – B A – stood for Bad Attitude! Much to the Colonel's amusement, he had also observed that he was nearly always surrounded by the children of the local personnel who worked at the base.

Colonel Smith just couldn't understand it. On paper the guy appeared to be the perfect, text-book army candidate. He had 14 months' military experience under his belt from his time spent with the JDF, together with his training with the Special Forces. He was very much a weapons and engineering expert and had shown exceptional skills in advance demolition with offensive and defensive explosives.

On top of that, he appeared to be nothing short of a mechanical genius with extraordinary construction abilities. He had all the credentials the Colonel was looking for to replace his current Sargent whose tour had finished a couple of weeks ago.

As the Colonel scanned over the rest of the file, his attention was brought to an incident that he had been involved in during his final jump week at Airborne School. He had tried to help a colleague, whose parachute failed to fully open, as he plunged towards the Drop Zone at an alarming pace. Baracus was the next man in the line to jump and saw that he was in trouble. He had successfully steered his chute towards the man in an effort to help him land safely. Unfortunately, the stricken jumper never made it in one piece and Baracus had landed badly himself. Luckily he suffered only minor injuries and had been awarded extra merit for his bravery and quick-thinking actions under extreme pressure.

Smith was impressed. Surely the guy couldn't be all that bad!

"Ludlum said you wanted to see me," suddenly growled a voice from the doorway.

The Colonel looked up to find Baracus glaring at him in an intimidating manner. Smith immediately felt the Sargent's abrasive attitude grating on his nerves. There was no polite knock or courteous introduction to his arrival. Although Smith wasn't a great one for protocol, he found the Sargent's lack of respect towards his CO's rank rather insulting.

"Something wrong with your right arm, soldier?" he barked back, returning Baracus's look of defiance with his own steely-eyed glare.

Baracus turned his eyes skyward for a second, but not wishing to piss off another dumb-ass officer so soon after getting out of the Brigg, he raised his arm into a half-hearted salute.

Smith acknowledged the salute with a curt nod of his head and beckoned him into his hooch. With a heavy sigh, Baracus trudged across the room and stood in front of the Colonel.

Smith deliberately continued to read the file for a few more seconds, in an attempt to unnerve the Sargent and let him know who was boss. He finally looked up to address him.

"You got an obsession about being thrown in the Brigg?" he asked. "You've already had two visits there this week alone and its only Wednesday!"

"Ludlum said I didn't put enough spit on my boots!" retorted Baracus. "I'd only just come back from a 3-hour assignment defusing mines in some stinking, muddy rice field, but he was chewing me out over ma dirty boots!"

Smith couldn't help sympathising with Baracus. General Ludlum was what he would describe as one of those "old school" soldiers. He was more interested in political awareness than he was about getting his hands dirty out in the field.

"I see," he responded slowly. "And the other incident?"

"Some sucka made a comment about my mama's photo! snarled Baracus. "No-one shows my mama disrespect. He won't forget that again in a hurry!"

The Colonel couldn't help thinking that the unfortunate grunt must have been remarkably brave; and/or incredibly stupid; and/or drunk as a skunk to evoke the wrath of this giant of a man in such a manner.

He looked down at the file again, whilst Baracus started to shuffle his feet impatiently. He had no idea why he had been summoned to the Colonel's office, but he wished he would just get the lecture over with, so he could get the hell out of there.

"I see you experienced a rather nasty ordeal at Jump School?" continued Smith. "Must have been a very frightening experience."

For a second, he thought he saw a hint of anguish break down the Sargent's gruff exterior. But somehow he managed to recover from his moment of weakness.

"BA Baracus ain't scared of nothin' or no-one," he hissed resolutely. But he couldn't quite disguise the panic in his voice. Realising that the Colonel had picked up on the chink in his body armour, he added quickly, "There's no reason why anyone should know about this, is there Sir?"

"No reason I can think of," replied Smith. He somehow managed to keep the bemused smirk off his face as he recognised from the tone in his voice that Baracus was giving him a direct order, rather than making a polite request.

Despite the fact that he had serious anger management issues, Smith couldn't help warming to the straight-talking, intelligent Sargent. He liked the way he had stuck up for his mama. He obviously seemed devoted to her. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage in getting Baracus to play ball.

"How would you like a chance to put your talents to better use?" asked Smith. "I am in urgent need for a reliable, skilled weapons expert to compliment my team."

Baracus looked up in surprise. He had of course heard of the somewhat legendary Colonel Smith and his famous A-Team. He was known more commonly as Hannibal amongst his men. They had a reputation for being the best at what they did. And BA had always strived to be the best.

He looked intently at the Colonel's face. He struck Baracus as being very young to be in such high command. He guessed possibly early-thirties. His fair hair was flecked with white specks around his temples and behind his ears, making him look older that he probably was. His sapphire-blue eyes burned attentively as he held the Sargent's gaze and he moved with a nervous energy that was both contagious and motivating.

"I guess it beats spending the rest of ma days in the Brigg," he finally said.

Smith met Baracus's response with a deep frown.

"Let's get something straight, soldier," he said in a warning voice. "I don't give a shit about your past or your hang-ups. I only care about the welfare of this unit and we always work as a team. I give the orders and if you can't hack that then don't waste my fucking time."

"I ain't scared to take no bullet for the team," huffed Baracus indignantly.

"That's good to know," said Smith. "But I'm not interested in accommodating any hot-headed, punch-happy vigilante. You get into any more trouble and I'm going to write to your mama and let her know what her little boy is getting up to over here!"

He paused to give the Sargent time to digest this information. At the mention of his mama's name a look of complete horror flashed across his face. He truly believed that the Colonel was crazy enough to carry out his threat!

"Any questions?" asked Smith.

Baracus thought about retaliating, but wisely decided against it. Even he could see this was a chance for him to dig himself out of the whole he had gotten himself into.

"No Sir," he replied civilly, albeit through gritted teeth!

"Good reply," said Smith. "I'll make the arrangements with General Ludlum to get you transferred A-SAP."

Baracus made a move to turn and leave the room before hastily turning back to face the Colonel again.

"Permission to leave, Colonel?" he asked.

"Permission granted," replied Smith.

Baracus threw the Colonel a firm salute before marching out of the hooch.

Smith closed the file and sat back in his chair, smiling contently. He fished out a cigar from behind his ear and lit it with a satisfactory flourish.

"Perfect!" he thought to himself. "I love it when a plan comes together!"

FINI

[_Sorry about the corny ending. I haven't used it in a while and was getting withdrawal symptoms! Any reviews from any mean, ugly Mudscuckers out there would be greatly appreciated._]


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